


Just An Ordinary Day

by Jeanniemckeown



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Curtain Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 10:14:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeanniemckeown/pseuds/Jeanniemckeown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John blogs and Sherlock roams his mind palace. John makes Sherlock eat, and Sherlock trusts absolutely that John will always be there, right beside him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just An Ordinary Day

Written for trope-bingo and posted in the Amnesty period.  
Trope - curtainfic  
Fanfiction, with no infringement intended!

 

Just an Ordinary Day

It’s not an important case, but it intrigues him. It’ll be a blip on the blog, an amusing side note, but it will keep John happy and, as much as he likes to scoff, a happy John is a thing of beauty and a joy forever to Sherlock Holmes, detective savant. Oh, there it is – that old trick, the sideways approach, always works, fools the brain into finding the link that it has been missing… St Pancras, 14:00 train to Lincoln, the Cathedral. 1477. Marble font. 1583 dissolution, the fire… back on the 1700 to Liverpool Street, clever devil but I’m sharper…

“Tea?” John is holding out a mug, steam rising from the surface. English Breakfast. He’s still holding the paper, frowning at the announcements. “Tea, Sherlock.”

He takes the tea. Where in London… think, think, visit the palace, link… ah, oh he loves this moment. There, gleaming among the swirling words and floating schematics, there is the answer, so, so simple…

“You should eat.” John is back again, deftly swopping the tea, cold now, for a tray which holds soup, mulligatawny, and toast, brown. Yuck.

“Don’t we have any white bread?” Sherlock demands crossly, and John, settling back into his armchair, his own tray on the footstool and his netbook balancing on its arm, shakes his head nonchalantly, too carefully. “Stop trying to make me healthy,” Sherlock grumbles, but he picks up the spoon and makes short work of the soup. Across the room John taps a few keys and sighs the sigh which says another entry is completed, is posted online.

“We’re going to the Minories,” Sherlock announces, standing up and brushing crumbs carelessly on to the floor. John looks up and tut tuts. “To see a man about a coffin brass,” Sherlock continues blithely, and grabs his coat off the hook. John rolls his eyes but flips his netbook shut and obligingly shrugs on his ratty old jacket.

“A coffin brass?” he enquires mildly, but Sherlock is already halfway down the stairs, shouting a farewell to Mrs Hudson, secure in his belief that John is right behind him, as always. John snorts, closes and carefully locks the door behind him, stops in the entrance hall to call reassurance back up the stairs to their landlady, who had heard only Sherlock’s yell and not his words, and makes it outside in time to jump into the black cab which has pulled up alongside the kerb of 221B.

As always.


End file.
